Brother Dearest
by Aviva Tsuion
Summary: Watson has left Holmes at Richenbach. It is time for the final confrontation, when who appears but Mycroft Holmes, alias James Moriarty. The scene at the fall if Sherlock had to kill his own brother. Oneshot.


_I swear, I'm still working on the rewrites, this just happened to leap into my mind._

_Disclaimer: I own nothing._

* * *

He watched as Dr. John Watson disappeared down the trail. As soon as the familiar figure vanished from sight, Sherlock Holmes let out a sigh of relief. At least Watson would be safe, safe to return to his _beloved_ wife and live out his days in peace. He, Holmes, was another matter. But Holmes had never really planed to live too long, never expected to. His line of work was a dangerous one, and he didn't fancy the weakening that came with age. It was much better to devote himself to his work, whatever the cost may be. He wasn't about to throw away his life, but seeing the great criminal mastermind meet his end was more than worth it.

Were Watson not married, on the other hand... No! He could not distract himself with pointless what-ifs, dreams of things that _could_ not be. He was about to die, for god's sake, he had more important things to worry about – he had someone to bring down with him.

With that Holmes set off down the trail, away from his dearest friend, towards his unavoidable fate. He rambled on down the trail, refusing to look back. He picked up his pace as the ground beneath his feet became rougher, going up and down rocks. It wasn't easy going, but for that he was grateful, as it took his mind off of what he knew was to come.

Finally he saw a fall ahead, a little ledge continued the trail beneath the crashing water. This was the place, the perfect location for the final confrontation with Professor James Moriarty. He approached cautiously, slowly, his eyes darting around for any shred of evidence as to a trap, but he saw nothing. It was not a surprise. As much as Moriarty liked to work behind the scenes, he would not pass up a chance to confront Sherlock Holmes in person.

So the detective chose a rock against the solid rock cliff and took a seat.

He waited as the minutes passed, fading by in a waiting game that he both wanted to end, and couldn't stretch on long enough, simultaneously.

Then he spotted a portly figure strolling up the path on the other side. His gait was deliberate and casual, as if he were walking on the streets of London. A leathery umbrella swung in his hand like a metronome counting down the seconds to the end. Finally, he stepped onto the rocky ledge beneath the raging fall.

"Brother dearest!" he exclaimed with a smug smile, behind the simple arrogance hid a hint of pure malice.

Sherlock stood carefully, "Mycroft, you took your time."

"I am not quite as fit as you or your _dear_ doctor." there was an obvious mocking tone to his measured voice, "I'm disappointed in you, you let him go. I was hoping to have a little fun. But I suppose it's all for the best. He could very easily get in the way, and we wouldn't want that."

Sherlock frowned at the obvious threat, "What do you want?"

"Now, now." Mycroft smiled benignly, "You know exactly what I want."

"I don't want this to come to-" Sherlock began.

Mycroft cut him off, "Tut tut, we both know that isn't quite true. You want me out of the way, and you're willing to die to do so. You were always the perfect one, so self sacrificing. But you've got your more selfish reasons too, don't you? You were always the weak one, so attached to your little pets, first Victor, then John. I suppose you'll never learn now, will you?"

Sherlock lunged at his brother.

"Not so fast." he replied, blocking with a lazy flick of his umbrella, but Sherlock could see just how much effort holding him back took.

He charged again, and his brother nearly shoved him from his precarious position on the cliff. It was then that he really understood the stakes.

"A last request!" he exclaimed, panting, as he regained his footing.

"Very well." Mycroft frowned at what he knew it would be used for, but pulled out a pen and paper all the same.

Sherlock nodded sharply, sat down on the rock he had been waiting upon, and wrote until he could write no more, his writing as immaculate as he could make it. Then, the great detective stood once more, to face his older brother – always seven years wiser, but not any more.

Sherlock lunged once more.

_(You will be missed, my dear older brother.)_


End file.
